My soul, there is an image of you
each side of the six-sided mirror cube
we call the universe, but mirrors can
only reveal according to their capacity.
They cannot picture the stages of the
soul’s growing. The sun ask the inner
sun, “How can I see you?” When you set,
I rise, comes the answer. Intellect
wants to restrain the soul like a camel
with its feet tied, and love longs to
hold the soul’s seven levels, but neither
intention is possible. Sometimes in a
harvest circle a single piece of grain
in the cloud of chaff and stems seems
to have legs and wings. That’s the size
and effect of mind in the region of soul.
In the ocean once you saw what the soul
is. Since then awe has floaded you.
When soul asks questions, the pleasure
of gold earrings comes to everyone’s
ears. Personality is a small dog trying
to get the soul to play. I hear you
call and I’m out walking the road without
legs or feet. What could we do that
might resemble what we do? Days, nights?
We are shade under your tree. Adam left
the spirit world because you are here.
You called. Love is an ocean storm
moving for your touch. To have your
words in this I must stop speaking
(from “The soul of Rumi”)